The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  The man turned to the Halverics, but both of them gave him a tight-lipped stare that promised no softening of the Duke’s position. His shoulders sagged.

  “Yes—it’s clear.”

  “Well, then?”

  “Well—” He looked around at his men. “We’ll march with you.”

  “And obey? That means at once, without question.”

  “Yes—my lord.”

  “Good.” The Duke swept his eyes over the Pliuni contingent. “Have your men return whatever they took to the correct houses, at once.” The captain turned to his sergeants and gave the orders. Those who had taken bundles picked them up and moved reluctantly toward the houses. “Hurry up!” called the Duke sharply. “We’ve wasted enough time on this nonsense.”

  In a few minutes the men were back in formation and the march resumed. Paks wondered how good the Pliuni troops would be in a fight—and how loyal.

  The next morning they met Vladi’s Company in a narrow wood. They were grim and weathered-looking; soon the stories of their campaign spread through the troops. Vladi’s men had reached Cortes Cilwan before Siniava, but had found the city divided in allegiance. The city militia, so the tavern gossip ran, was half for Siniava already. The Count of Cilwan would not risk rebellion on the eve of war, and refused to arrest even known traitors—some said because his dead wife’s brother was chief among them. Although it had been planned otherwise, the Vonja militia had not joined Vladi’s men, wanting to be sure which way trouble was coming before moving. So although messages were sent as soon as Siniava’s presence in the Immer valley was certain, the Vonja troops were several days’ march away.

  “And that left us,” said the burly sergeant talking to Stammel. “We marched out to meet his whole army. Just us. Those damned militia wouldn’t leave the city walls, and Vladi refused to take the Count’s Guard—said they were loyal, and he had too few who were.” He hawked and spat “You can imagine—outnumbered about five to one—all we could do was slow ‘em.”

  “Did you get the Count out?” asked Stammel, as he offered the other man a skin of wine.

  “Mmm. That’s good; we haven’t had anything but water these last weeks. No, their fool Count wouldn’t come. He said he was Count of Cilwan, and he was staying where he belonged.” He swallowed again. “They killed him when they broke in, a couple of days later. Hung his corpse on the gate, and that. He did let us get his heir out. Boy of eleven or so. Nice lad. I suppose now, with the news you brought about the south, they’ll send him to Andressat. The old Count’s daughter married the Viscount of Andressat; he’ll be safe enough there.”

  “I imagine so. We don’t need a child with us on this campaign.” Stammel shook his head. “Well, did they pursue you when you came here?”

  “Pursue! Ha! We tried to attack their rear, before they broke the citadel, and they drove us back—pretty bad, that time; we lost too many. Then we moved south, toward Immervale, and harried their supply line. We kept hoping those Vonja militia would show up in time to save the citadel. Finally Vladi took us around north of the city. We finally found the militia, a day’s march out, after the citadel fell. We were all well chewed up by this time, and Vladi gave their captains a few choice words. About took the bark off the trees, he did, and so they said they’d get Siniava themselves if we’d guard the Andressat approaches. That’s when we moved over this way and tried to get back in shape. But you can imagine what they did.”

  “No, what?”

  “Well, our spies said Siniava had garrisoned Cortes Cilwan and was moving toward Koury. We thought even Vonja should be able to trap him there, with Ambela and Sorellin coming down from the north. But that fell apart because Siniava’s factions in Cortes Vonja and Pler Vonja revolted, and as soon as the militia heard, they hared off home to join in the fight. Sorellin never moved, so Koury fell easily, and Siniava had fresh troops. He went for Ambela next, and held off the Sorellin militia long enough to breach the wall and loot. In fact, I hear he routed both the Sorellin militia and a group from Pler Vonja. The last I heard, he was actually marching on Pler Vonja, and Foss Council had finally decided to send someone like they promised. Of course, they’re on the road somewhere, and Tir knows if they’ll come up in time to fight. Or if they’ll fight. Militia!”

  Stammel nodded his agreement. “Has it been quiet over here, then?”

  “Not really. You’ll find out. He must have a small army of agents in Cilwan; they can take out sentries without a sound. You’ll lose a man or so every night if you don’t double your guardposts. And all you ever get back is pieces—hands and feet lying in the trail, or an arm tacked up on a barn.”

  “And you’ve never caught them at it?”

  “No, not since we left the city. We lost three men in Cortes Cilwan, but we caught those bastards who did it in the same house with the bodies. Out here, no.”

  A shout from the captains ended this conversation, and the army was soon marching again, enlarged by Vladi’s Company. The rest of that day and the next they marched north and west, angling toward Cortes Vonja. By nightfall the first day, they had reached the south bank of the Immerest, the great western arm of the Immer River. They passed no bridges, and the river was too deep to ford, so the commanders decided to march upstream another day rather than risk a boat crossing. The Halverics thought they remembered a ford somewhere south of Cortes Vonja.

  It was on this day, in broad daylight, that Siniava’s agents struck at the column. The first Paks knew about it was in forming up again after a rest break at midmorning. Three people were missing; a search of the river-bank and woods along it yielded nothing. The Pliuni smirked, and Paks heard one mutter something about “typical mercenaries—deserters.” After a half-glass spent searching and calling, the column moved on. Paks knew that old Harek, a veteran, would never have deserted.

  Perhaps an hour later, Aliam Halveric rode up beside her cohort and asked Stammel if he’d seen the senior Halveric captain. When Stammel said no, he rode on up the column. Stammel looked worried. Paks wondered if the Halveric captain had disappeared. She felt a cramp of cold fear. Could he have been captured? In daylight? When the column halted at midday, orders were given that no one move out of sight of the column. Paks saw the Duke and Aliam Halveric ride down the column together, talking quietly. She had never seen the Halveric like that, gray-faced and drawn; it must be that the Halveric captain—his oldest living son, she’d heard—was gone. She thought of what might be happening to him, and felt cold again.

  Shortly after dark that night, Stammel told Paks to report to the Duke’s tent. When she had found her way across the darkened camp to his tent, she found the Duke and the captains and several other soldiers. She had just greeted them when three more soldiers came in.

  “That should do it,” said the Duke. “Now—I have a very dangerous and difficult mission for you. If any of you are not fit—if you think you’re coming down with a fever, or a wound’s bothering you—or if you don’t want to risk yourself away from the Company—tell me now, and I’ll release you. You’ve all been recommended by your captains, both for bravery and woodscraft. But this is no ordinary soldiering I’m asking of you; I want only those who are willing.” Paks thought of what he might want them to do. Sneak into Siniava’s camp and kill him? One of the others sneezed explosively. “Now that,” said the Duke, “is what we can’t have—you may be excused.”

  “But my lord,” said the man. “This just come on since we ate—I can pinch my nose. I wouldn’t make that noise, my lord; I know I wouldn’t.”

  The Duke smiled. “I know you’d try not to—but you can’t pinch your nose if you’re carrying something. This is too important to chance it. Go on, now. I don’t think the worse of you.” The man looked at his captain, Dorrin, who nodded toward the entrance. He shuffled out, shamefaced. The Duke glanced around. “I take it the rest of you are willing?” They nodded. “Good. Some of you may have guessed that the Halveric’s eldest son has disappeared. We are fairly sure he
was captured. I think they will not kill him at once; he’s too valuable as a prisoner.” Paks felt a thrill; the Duke must be planning to get him out. She could not imagine how they could get into Siniava’s camp, find the Halveric, and escape, but it was a worthy endeavor.

  “You will not be going into Siniava’s camp yourselves,” said the Duke, breaking into her thoughts. “We have agents who can move there openly. You don’t need to know about that, but they are trying to find and free Cal—the captain—and move him out of camp. If he’s already dead, they’ll bring his body out. You’ll meet them beside the river, on the far side, and bring him back; they cannot be seen near us. Now—several of you can handle a boat, right?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Tam and Amisi from Cracolnya’s cohort, and Piter from Arcolin’s stepped forward.

  “Good. The rest of you, listen to these three when it comes to crossing the river. Come and look at this map.” They all gathered around the map table. “Here we are,” said the Duke. “Take this lane, west of camp, then look for a big stone barn. Cut across here—there’s an orchard and two fields—and you’ll come to the river. There’s a big willow with a limb hanging out over the water—the only tree that size for a half-mile along here, so you should find it even in the dark. There’ll be a boat there, big enough for you and Cal. Across the river is a stone ledge, three men high. Upstream of that is where you’ll wait for them to bring him. Remember that sound carries more over water than on land. Whatever you do, don’t separate. They’ll cut you up if you do, and you’re more likely to be captured. The password on the far side, to the men who’ll be bringing Cal, is a question: Where lies Havensford? Their answer is: Across the mountains. Anyone else will tell you it’s four days march upstream. Siniava’s watchword is a challenge of apricot, and the answer is brambles. Don’t confuse them.” No one asked how the Duke knew the enemy watchwords. With the rest, Paks repeated them several times. The Duke nodded finally.

  “Good. You’ll go armed, but without shields. Make sure you don’t show anything shiny. You should be back by dawn or a little after. If you have trouble on this side of the river, make as much noise as you can. I don’t want to move troops around tonight, or his agents might figure out what we’re doing, but I’ll have them ready to move fast if you call. If they do get Cal to you alive, don’t let him be captured again—whatever you have to do. Give him the death-stroke before you’re disabled, if it comes to that. Are you ready?”

  Paks’s throat felt like dust. She hardly heard the boat specialists giving them a few advance instructions: sit still, don’t move around, don’t stand up, don’t trail your hands in the water, don’t talk or spit. In a few minutes they were clear of the camp, walking quickly down the lane the Duke had shown them on the map. After some minutes of walking, Paks could hear something besides the blood pounding in her ears. In the clear night, brilliant stars gave some shape to the land and trees. A vast dark shape loomed up before them: the stone barn. They turned aside. Starlight glimmered on the blossoms left on the fruit trees in the orchard; their scent was stronger in the damp night air. The first field beyond was plowed, and their boots rasped on rough furrows and clods. The next was in grass; once more they moved quietly, slipping along the margin of the field by a hedge as fragrant as a flower garden.

  Trees loomed before them, and starlight danced on the river. They slowed, looking for the willow tree they were to find. Suddenly Paks felt a hand-grip signal passed back: there. She edged forward, alert for stones that could roll beneath her feet, or sticks that could crack. Once in the willow’s shadow it was even harder to see. Paks stumbled on a rock, lurching forward and biting her tongue against any sound. Someone grabbed her arm and steadied her. She did the same for another who stumbled into her a moment later. They found the limb, wide enough to walk on, and then the boat.

  The boat experts urged everyone into a huddle, then loaded the boat, guiding them with nudges and handgrips. It had looked a large dark shape to Paks when she saw it empty, but once aboard it felt too small. Not crowded—but the sides were too low, and she felt too close to the water. And the boat tipped and shifted with every motion of its passengers. She tried to keep from moving in response, fearing to tip the whole thing over.

  With a rower at each end, and one in the middle, they moved quietly across the current. Paks did not know how the rowers could tell where they were going. When they landed on the far side, just where they had been told to wait, she was glad to crawl from the boat to solid ground again. She crouched silently in the dark, waiting for someone to arrive. It seemed a long time.

  They heard the hoofbeats coming from upstream for some time before the riders were close enough to challenge. Amisi, in a southern accent, asked, “Where lies Havensford?”

  “Across the mountains,” came the soft reply. The horses had stopped, and Paks could just see two cloaked and hooded shapes swing off their mounts and move to help a third.

  “You’ve got him alive?” asked Amisi.

  “Aye.” Paks and the others moved toward the voice, and helped to steady the man they were supporting.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “How careless of you, Captain, to be riding alone so far from your troops.” The voice was soft and gentle. The bonds on his arms and legs were not. Cal Halveric said nothing. “You might have met with some fatal accident, you know. It is fortunate for you that my servants are not quick to kill. We do not entertain guests of your distinguished rank often, Captain.” Cal could see nothing through the hood that covered his head but the glint of light between dark threads. Captain they could have guessed from his clothes and his horse; he hoped very much that they did not know which captain. “I hope,” the voice went on, sharpening a little, “that you are attending to me—”

  Something, it could have been a boot or pike-butt, prodded his ribs. When he said nothing, a much harder blow slammed into the same spot. He felt one rib crack, and caught his breath in a gasp of pain.

  Before he could recover, rough hands dragged him up from the ground and tightened the hood around his neck until he could barely draw a breath. A hand felt over his face, applied pressure to the eyeballs, the angle of his jaw. When he tried to twist away, the cloth around his throat tightened. He tried not to react, but at last breathlessness overcame his control and he choked, fighting the halter and the merciless hands. Instead of release, he got hard blows to the belly. When he was reeling, the tightness eased slightly, and he gasped for breath, unaware of anything else. When he could hear again, the soft voice was speaking.

  “You see, Captain, I must be sure I have your attention for our very important conference—do I?” When Cal did not answer, the cloth at his throat tightened again, slowly. His throat moved convulsively and he choked. “Was that a ‘yes,’ Captain?” the voice went on. “You must speak clearly, so that we do not mistake one another.” Cal fought back a desire to speak all too clearly to this scum, and thought instead of Seliam, dead in his first command. This time the choking continued until he passed out completely.

  Someone was calling his name. “Cal—Cal—” the voice went on. A soft voice. He couldn’t think who it was. “Cal—wake up.” He stirred and took a long breath. Pain stabbed his ribs; his throat was sore—it was dark. He started to reach for his dagger, as always when he woke, and realized that his arms were bound. And his legs. He was flat on his back, and cold. He shifted his head, trying to remember, to think.

  “Caliam Halveric,” the voice mused. “Oldest living son of Aliam Halveric—his second in command—his heir, I understand. Cal, they call you, don’t they?” A hand brushed his body and he realized he was naked—then remembered the hood—and what had come before. The hand traced some of his old scars, slowly. He shivered, telling himself it was from the cold. The voice began again, brisker. “Caliam Halveric. What are you worth to your father—” the hand touched his manhood, “—whole? What would he give for you? Anything? Or—would you fetch a better price elsewhere? As a gelding, perhaps. Or per
haps his enemies would pay for you—” the hand touched here and there, “—piecemeal, so to speak. Eh?”

  Cal smiled grimly under the hood. He knew his worth to his father well enough, and the price someone would pay for his death. “I have sired sons enough,” he said, answering that oblique threat.

  “Ah yes.” The voice carried amusement. “You are married, are you not, to—now what is her name?” Cal did not answer. “Five sons and three—no, four—daughters, as I recall. But Cal—what makes you think I have no agents over the mountains. Are five sons enough, if you cannot get more?”

  He had not thought of that. Surely they were safe, so far away—young Aliam, only fifteen but furious at being left behind, Berrol the stubborn twelve year old, Malek and Kieri and baby Seli, born just a month after his uncle’s death. And the girls: tall Tamar, wild as Aliam, and Zuli, and Volya and Amis. Surely they were safe. But his breath came quicker. How did they know this? Were some of his own men traitors?

  After a long pause, the voice went on. “Your father, Cal—he has made a very unfortunate alliance with that crazy dukeling, Phelan.” Cal suppressed a snort. Phelan was as crazy as his nickname of fox. “But perhaps, if he values you, he might be persuaded to—to forget that alliance, at least for awhile.”

  “He will not be likely to forgive your murdering one of his sons because of your threats to another,” said Cal calmly.

  “Murder? You aren’t even harmed—yet—barring a rib you might have bruised falling off your horse.”